CHAPTER XIVTHE CASTAWAYKnocked down, recovering himself, scrambling and stumbling, Lang made footing, got into waist-deep water, and finally struggled out and beyond reach of the surf that seemed rushing in pursuit. The breath was battered out of him, he felt limp and weak and as if bruised all over.Wiping his eyes, he looked up and down for another survivor. Nothing but the foamy water moved along that shingly shore. He had scarcely any hope. Gustav’s brains must have been knocked out instantly on the reef, and Henry was long since drowned. Out on the rock theCondorstill hung spiked. She heaved up and down, and spray flew clean over her from the striking seas.At that moment Lang hardly regretted his companions, hardly was thankful of his escape, hardly thought of anything except to be glad to be out of that tearing surf. Brain and wits were numbed. He was cold, wet and intensely uncomfortable. The enormity of the disaster did not impress him at all, but he realized that he was going to perish of exposure unless he could be warmed and dried.He had thrown himself down, and he lay for some time still before he developed force enough to get on his feet. He had no bones broken, no severe bruises, even, but the strain and shock had left him in a sort of numb collapse.It was with difficulty that he fumbled for his match box. It was by luck still in his pocket, and was of aluminum, supposed to be water tight. The dozen or so matches did not appear damp, and he looked vaguely about for materials for a fire.There was plenty of driftwood all along the beach, but it was soaked with rain and sea water. Dense forest covered the slopes rising back from the shore. There must be firewood there, and he made his way across sand and shingle, over a belt of straggling grass, sprinkled with evergreen shrubs, and came to the edge of the woodland.He expected to find dry branches, twigs, fallen trunks, but everything was wetness. Rain and mist had made a sponge of the forest. He forced his way through the tangle of stunted, bushy conifers that dripped water from their boughs; the ground was spongy underfoot, thick with moss and overgrown with ferns. The fallen trees seemed all mossy, rotten, yielding, and what dead twigs he could find were too damp to be brittle.As he forced his way farther in, the trees were somewhat larger, but there was the same thick carpeting of luxuriant moss and ferns, the same sodden dankness. White and yellow and red fungi grew on the rotting wood. There were no birds, no sign of animal life, and that whole abominable swamp seemed like a forest in some sunless cavern.But it was warm here, for the dense jungle shut out all the wind. Shouldering his way about, he came at last upon a tree freshly broken off four feet aboveground, leaving a splintery stump, which oozed with bluish, gummy drops. It was “fat wood,” in fact, and as he realized this he tore off splinters with his fingers and the blade of his pocket knife, heaped them around the fractured end of the trunk, and struck a match.The resinous stuff flared up furiously. The flames ran over the gummy surface of the damp trunk, and within two minutes he had a roaring and intensely hot fire, such as he would never have thought this saturated forest could produce. He stripped off his outer garments to dry them, and stood in his underclothing, revolving slowly before the blaze, and steaming in its heat.Vitality flowed back into him with the warmth. His aching limbs were soothed. He tore off armfuls of evergreen branches, shook the damp from them, and tossed them on the fire. When his clothes were nearly dry he put them on again, and sat down, stupid and drowsy. He noticed that the daylight was waning, the fire redder and brighter. The crash and wash of the sea mingled with the sound of the wind in the treetops, and he dozed again and again, finally sinking into a heavy sleep with his back against a tree.He started up suddenly in a sort of horror, broad awake, feeling as if he had not slept at all. Darkness was all around him, except in the circle of red glow from the low fire, and all the terror of his predicament came down upon him, as if it had been gathering force while he slept.He had come to the end of everything. He was cast away on what he knew to be a desolate and uninhabited coast, a hundred miles perhaps from any settlement, without food or any means of obtaining any, except the little automatic pistol in his pocket, which he hardly knew how to use. He had lost the great race, lost the emeralds, lost his life, and lost Morrison’s life, and Eva’s, too, if it happened that she had really gone on the expedition with her father.He dragged the fire together and made it burn up. But he was too anguished now to sit still. There was a soaking fog in the air. The forest smelled of mold and death. He pushed out, blindly restless, toward the open shore again.Out in the open he found the world full of a pale glow. The air was cloudy with fog, and a strong moon was shining through it. The crash of the surf was fainter. The wind had fallen.Going down to the water’s edge, it seemed a long way. Out through the fog he could see the wreck of the schooner, and he wondered what optical effect of haze made it seem only a stone’s throw away. It was still spiked on its rock, but now seemed to stand in an almost vertical position, with the stern in the water. Then he grasped the fact that the tide was out.The receding waters had left her scarcely fifty yards from shore. The waves ran with less violence now, for the barrier rocks, standing in a tall file above the surface, broke their force. And immediately Lang remembered that there was food in that schooner.He was empty, starving. Instantly he started to wade out, bracing himself against the rollers. The shore sloped so gradually that he actually made most of the distance without going much over the waist; then it shelved suddenly, and he stumbled to his shoulders.Treading warily for fear of a sudden plunge, he came within a fathom of the rock where the boat hung, and then the bottom went out of touch. He dipped under, but with a wallow and a few strokes he clutched the slippery edge of the crag, and got his hands on the schooner’s rail.Easily now he pulled himself up. The schooner’s whole bottom seemed smashed out back of the bows, and a great spike of rock protruded through the hole. Everything movable in her must have tumbled down into the stern, and much of it, he was afraid, must have been washed out.He slid down into the stern himself. Three feet of it was under water, but, as he groped down with his hands, he could feel a miscellaneous collection of loose objects—the handle of an ax, the head of a spade, and a rolling collection of tins, all mixed and tangled up with blankets, tarpaulin, his own poncho, pieces of canvas and bits of cordage. He felt several loose potatoes which he fished out and put carefully in his pockets, and then extracted other objects one by one, dripping in the pallid lightAs he retrieved them he laid them in a wet blanket He secured a lump of corn bread, water soaked and uneatable, a piece of dried beef, and one by one, most precious of all, tin after tin of American canned provisions. And among these he struck upon the priceless salvage of the emergency box of matches, its top still fast waxed.How to get all these things ashore was a problem. Finally he tied them up sacklike in the blanket, with six feet of loose cord, and, holding the end of this, he ventured to jump.It came near drowning him, but he held fast to the rope and came through, dragging the freight after him. Well above high-water mark on the shore he poured out the cargo and immediately went back for more.This time he secured the rifle, but could find no cartridges. Its magazine was full, however, and he took it, with a hatchet, a spade, more loose potatoes, and several more food tins. He could find no cooking utensils of any sort, except the coffeepot, which seemed useless, as he had no coffee.This load was cumbersome and hard to get ashore. He almost had to drop it, and when he landed he felt that his strength would permit no more of these excursions. He was wolfishly hungry, and with an armful of tins, whose labels he could not see, he plunged into the woods again toward his camp fire, which glowed redly through the misty jungle.With the hatchet he was able to split fragments from the fallen tree, and he made a roaring blaze again. By its light he discovered that he had brought two tins of tomatoes, one of corn and two of vegetable soup—no very filling articles, any of them. He had no better can opener than the hatchet, but he hacked open the tomatoes and gulped down the contents, meanwhile setting the soup tins to heat, and laying several potatoes to roast at the edge of the fire.While they cooked, he dried his clothes once more. The potatoes proved hard, tasteless, saltless, but they filled his inside, and, with the hot soup, a marvelous change was wrought in him. Courage came back surprisingly. He had supplies now, enough for days, perhaps for weeks. Enough to carry him to La Carolina—enough to take him to the emerald glacier. It was possible that he might be in time, after all.Hope and impatience came back to him as he huddled in the comforting warmth. The valley of the glacier might be a day’s tramp away, or it might be three or four—hardly more than that. He could scarcely miss it if he followed down the coast. He would have to pack a heavy load of supplies, but he felt hardened to anything now. Meanwhile, rest was the first need. He forced himself to lie down, to close his eyes. He did not think he could sleep, but while plans still revolved through his mind he fell asleep.When he awoke he was wet again. It was gray morning, and raining. The branches dripped dismally. Only a thread of smoke rose from the almost extinct fire. He split chips with the hatchet, got it blazing again, and went back to the beach for more food, much less buoyant than a few hours ago.His little pile of salvage lay in a driving rain, and now he was able to see surely what he had. It was certainly more than he could ever carry on his back, and, worse yet, the tinned stuff seemed mostly vegetables. He picked out a tin of soup, however, and one of dried beef, and, returning to his fire, he opened them and ate.Returning to the beach, he looked carefully over his stores again. It was useless, he thought, to carry the spade. The rifle and hatchet would be cumbersome enough. He sorted out such of the tinned goods as would give most nutriment for least weight, and found a good deal of soup, sardines, beef and salmon after all. One tin box that he had supposed to contain meat was full of candles, which he had brought with some vague idea of underground work. It occurred to him that they might be invaluable for lighting fires.There was also a lump of salt beef weighing some four pounds, more than a dozen potatoes, the tin of matches, and he piled out twenty cans of food, which should be enough for ten days, or more at short rations. At any rate it was all he dared try to carry, and he tied all these articles together in the blanket much as he had dragged them from the schooner, and made a loop to go over his shoulder.There was not the slightest use in delaying his start. He packed tins of corn and beans in all his pockets, put the hatchet in his belt, took the rifle in his hand, and started to tramp southward along the beach in the rain.
Knocked down, recovering himself, scrambling and stumbling, Lang made footing, got into waist-deep water, and finally struggled out and beyond reach of the surf that seemed rushing in pursuit. The breath was battered out of him, he felt limp and weak and as if bruised all over.
Wiping his eyes, he looked up and down for another survivor. Nothing but the foamy water moved along that shingly shore. He had scarcely any hope. Gustav’s brains must have been knocked out instantly on the reef, and Henry was long since drowned. Out on the rock theCondorstill hung spiked. She heaved up and down, and spray flew clean over her from the striking seas.
At that moment Lang hardly regretted his companions, hardly was thankful of his escape, hardly thought of anything except to be glad to be out of that tearing surf. Brain and wits were numbed. He was cold, wet and intensely uncomfortable. The enormity of the disaster did not impress him at all, but he realized that he was going to perish of exposure unless he could be warmed and dried.
He had thrown himself down, and he lay for some time still before he developed force enough to get on his feet. He had no bones broken, no severe bruises, even, but the strain and shock had left him in a sort of numb collapse.
It was with difficulty that he fumbled for his match box. It was by luck still in his pocket, and was of aluminum, supposed to be water tight. The dozen or so matches did not appear damp, and he looked vaguely about for materials for a fire.
There was plenty of driftwood all along the beach, but it was soaked with rain and sea water. Dense forest covered the slopes rising back from the shore. There must be firewood there, and he made his way across sand and shingle, over a belt of straggling grass, sprinkled with evergreen shrubs, and came to the edge of the woodland.
He expected to find dry branches, twigs, fallen trunks, but everything was wetness. Rain and mist had made a sponge of the forest. He forced his way through the tangle of stunted, bushy conifers that dripped water from their boughs; the ground was spongy underfoot, thick with moss and overgrown with ferns. The fallen trees seemed all mossy, rotten, yielding, and what dead twigs he could find were too damp to be brittle.
As he forced his way farther in, the trees were somewhat larger, but there was the same thick carpeting of luxuriant moss and ferns, the same sodden dankness. White and yellow and red fungi grew on the rotting wood. There were no birds, no sign of animal life, and that whole abominable swamp seemed like a forest in some sunless cavern.
But it was warm here, for the dense jungle shut out all the wind. Shouldering his way about, he came at last upon a tree freshly broken off four feet aboveground, leaving a splintery stump, which oozed with bluish, gummy drops. It was “fat wood,” in fact, and as he realized this he tore off splinters with his fingers and the blade of his pocket knife, heaped them around the fractured end of the trunk, and struck a match.
The resinous stuff flared up furiously. The flames ran over the gummy surface of the damp trunk, and within two minutes he had a roaring and intensely hot fire, such as he would never have thought this saturated forest could produce. He stripped off his outer garments to dry them, and stood in his underclothing, revolving slowly before the blaze, and steaming in its heat.
Vitality flowed back into him with the warmth. His aching limbs were soothed. He tore off armfuls of evergreen branches, shook the damp from them, and tossed them on the fire. When his clothes were nearly dry he put them on again, and sat down, stupid and drowsy. He noticed that the daylight was waning, the fire redder and brighter. The crash and wash of the sea mingled with the sound of the wind in the treetops, and he dozed again and again, finally sinking into a heavy sleep with his back against a tree.
He started up suddenly in a sort of horror, broad awake, feeling as if he had not slept at all. Darkness was all around him, except in the circle of red glow from the low fire, and all the terror of his predicament came down upon him, as if it had been gathering force while he slept.
He had come to the end of everything. He was cast away on what he knew to be a desolate and uninhabited coast, a hundred miles perhaps from any settlement, without food or any means of obtaining any, except the little automatic pistol in his pocket, which he hardly knew how to use. He had lost the great race, lost the emeralds, lost his life, and lost Morrison’s life, and Eva’s, too, if it happened that she had really gone on the expedition with her father.
He dragged the fire together and made it burn up. But he was too anguished now to sit still. There was a soaking fog in the air. The forest smelled of mold and death. He pushed out, blindly restless, toward the open shore again.
Out in the open he found the world full of a pale glow. The air was cloudy with fog, and a strong moon was shining through it. The crash of the surf was fainter. The wind had fallen.
Going down to the water’s edge, it seemed a long way. Out through the fog he could see the wreck of the schooner, and he wondered what optical effect of haze made it seem only a stone’s throw away. It was still spiked on its rock, but now seemed to stand in an almost vertical position, with the stern in the water. Then he grasped the fact that the tide was out.
The receding waters had left her scarcely fifty yards from shore. The waves ran with less violence now, for the barrier rocks, standing in a tall file above the surface, broke their force. And immediately Lang remembered that there was food in that schooner.
He was empty, starving. Instantly he started to wade out, bracing himself against the rollers. The shore sloped so gradually that he actually made most of the distance without going much over the waist; then it shelved suddenly, and he stumbled to his shoulders.
Treading warily for fear of a sudden plunge, he came within a fathom of the rock where the boat hung, and then the bottom went out of touch. He dipped under, but with a wallow and a few strokes he clutched the slippery edge of the crag, and got his hands on the schooner’s rail.
Easily now he pulled himself up. The schooner’s whole bottom seemed smashed out back of the bows, and a great spike of rock protruded through the hole. Everything movable in her must have tumbled down into the stern, and much of it, he was afraid, must have been washed out.
He slid down into the stern himself. Three feet of it was under water, but, as he groped down with his hands, he could feel a miscellaneous collection of loose objects—the handle of an ax, the head of a spade, and a rolling collection of tins, all mixed and tangled up with blankets, tarpaulin, his own poncho, pieces of canvas and bits of cordage. He felt several loose potatoes which he fished out and put carefully in his pockets, and then extracted other objects one by one, dripping in the pallid light
As he retrieved them he laid them in a wet blanket He secured a lump of corn bread, water soaked and uneatable, a piece of dried beef, and one by one, most precious of all, tin after tin of American canned provisions. And among these he struck upon the priceless salvage of the emergency box of matches, its top still fast waxed.
How to get all these things ashore was a problem. Finally he tied them up sacklike in the blanket, with six feet of loose cord, and, holding the end of this, he ventured to jump.
It came near drowning him, but he held fast to the rope and came through, dragging the freight after him. Well above high-water mark on the shore he poured out the cargo and immediately went back for more.
This time he secured the rifle, but could find no cartridges. Its magazine was full, however, and he took it, with a hatchet, a spade, more loose potatoes, and several more food tins. He could find no cooking utensils of any sort, except the coffeepot, which seemed useless, as he had no coffee.
This load was cumbersome and hard to get ashore. He almost had to drop it, and when he landed he felt that his strength would permit no more of these excursions. He was wolfishly hungry, and with an armful of tins, whose labels he could not see, he plunged into the woods again toward his camp fire, which glowed redly through the misty jungle.
With the hatchet he was able to split fragments from the fallen tree, and he made a roaring blaze again. By its light he discovered that he had brought two tins of tomatoes, one of corn and two of vegetable soup—no very filling articles, any of them. He had no better can opener than the hatchet, but he hacked open the tomatoes and gulped down the contents, meanwhile setting the soup tins to heat, and laying several potatoes to roast at the edge of the fire.
While they cooked, he dried his clothes once more. The potatoes proved hard, tasteless, saltless, but they filled his inside, and, with the hot soup, a marvelous change was wrought in him. Courage came back surprisingly. He had supplies now, enough for days, perhaps for weeks. Enough to carry him to La Carolina—enough to take him to the emerald glacier. It was possible that he might be in time, after all.
Hope and impatience came back to him as he huddled in the comforting warmth. The valley of the glacier might be a day’s tramp away, or it might be three or four—hardly more than that. He could scarcely miss it if he followed down the coast. He would have to pack a heavy load of supplies, but he felt hardened to anything now. Meanwhile, rest was the first need. He forced himself to lie down, to close his eyes. He did not think he could sleep, but while plans still revolved through his mind he fell asleep.
When he awoke he was wet again. It was gray morning, and raining. The branches dripped dismally. Only a thread of smoke rose from the almost extinct fire. He split chips with the hatchet, got it blazing again, and went back to the beach for more food, much less buoyant than a few hours ago.
His little pile of salvage lay in a driving rain, and now he was able to see surely what he had. It was certainly more than he could ever carry on his back, and, worse yet, the tinned stuff seemed mostly vegetables. He picked out a tin of soup, however, and one of dried beef, and, returning to his fire, he opened them and ate.
Returning to the beach, he looked carefully over his stores again. It was useless, he thought, to carry the spade. The rifle and hatchet would be cumbersome enough. He sorted out such of the tinned goods as would give most nutriment for least weight, and found a good deal of soup, sardines, beef and salmon after all. One tin box that he had supposed to contain meat was full of candles, which he had brought with some vague idea of underground work. It occurred to him that they might be invaluable for lighting fires.
There was also a lump of salt beef weighing some four pounds, more than a dozen potatoes, the tin of matches, and he piled out twenty cans of food, which should be enough for ten days, or more at short rations. At any rate it was all he dared try to carry, and he tied all these articles together in the blanket much as he had dragged them from the schooner, and made a loop to go over his shoulder.
There was not the slightest use in delaying his start. He packed tins of corn and beans in all his pockets, put the hatchet in his belt, took the rifle in his hand, and started to tramp southward along the beach in the rain.